


Feral Crew Notebook

by Askellie



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Crosstale Sans (Undertale), Crosstale Sans/Dreamtale Sans | Dream (Undertale), Dreamswap Nightmare Sans (Undertale), Dreamtale Nightmare Sans/Killer Sans (Undertale), Dreamtale Sans | Dream (Undertale), Implied/Referenced Torture, Killer Sans (Undertale) - Freeform, M/M, Muteness, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:21:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 7,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28722771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Askellie/pseuds/Askellie
Summary: Drabble collection inspired by my very beloved and feral mutuals on twitter. Shameless vampire aus, baby Dreamtale Twins, romantic stabbings, shameless torture and porn!
Relationships: Sans/Sans (Undertale)
Comments: 34
Kudos: 225





	1. Kross, Romantic Stabbing

**Author's Note:**

> For the last few months, my Twitter has been a weekly whirlwind of SO MANY IDEAS being thrown around and shared and enjoyed. Every so often I'll fail a willpower check and write something short and shameless. This is a collection of small-ish drabbles that may or may not ever turn into longer fics. 
> 
> First up is Kross with a romantic stabbing, inspired by a [conversation with @Ashtherat1](https://twitter.com/Askellie_ut/status/1331399698742005761).

It’s over in the space of a breath. Cross grapples with Killer, trying to throw the persistent bastard off, when a blow slams into his rib cage hard enough to knock all the breath from his lungs. The force of it jolts them apart, and He stumbles back a step, mildly surprised that for such a jarring hit it doesn’t seem to hurt much. He’d expect at least a broken bone, which from experience should feel a hell of a lot worse than this.

It’s only when he reaches down that he realises the odd protuberance sticking out from his chest isn’t the twisted arm of a broken rib, but the hilt of a knife. He looks down at it dumbly, feeling faintly impressed. Killer must keep his weapons sharp for it to have gone in so smoothly. It’s sliced right through his sternum, so close to his soul he can feel the way the metal is still humming with energy and intent, hot with his blood. He can feel it starting to seep into his clothes, a blooming flower of wet that seems to grow warmer as the rest of him goes cold. 

He takes another half-step back but Killer’s on him in an instant. He crowds Cross back against the alley wall, pinning him by the throat.

“Shhh, honey,” Killer murmurs, his voice shockingly gentle. “Don’t ruin the moment with unnecessary words, hm?”

Cross glares weakly, opening his mouth to try draw in a breath, but it catches in his chest. Instead he coughs, choking on the sudden violent surge of blood in the back of his throat. His skull swims as he wretches, his tainted purple essence spilling over his teeth and chin in a frothing waterfall.

“That’s right,” Killer breathes against him, pressing closer. His mouth brushes against Cross’s, smearing the blood. He mistakes it for an accident until Killer does it again, slower, more lingering. His tongue darts out to lick some of the blood from Cross’s teeth, and he gives a low, satisfied purr. “Mmm, you taste even better than I thought you would.”

Cross blinks slowly, uncomprehendingly. His arms feel like lead weights at his sides, impossible to lift. He’s only still standing because Killer’s body is holding him in place, pressing him into the wall, chest-to-chest, hip-to-hip. He’s careful not to jostle the knife -- not when one wrong slip could nudge the blade into Cross’s soul -- the way they’re entwined feels almost intimate if not for how Killer’s basking in the blood flow oozing down from the wound. 

“How’s it feel?” Killer asks pleasantly, his hold loosening on Cross’s throat until his fingers are only skimming the vertebrae, light and teasing. “Bet you’ve never had someone put it in so deep before. Your face tells me it’s your first time.”

Cross’s vision is fading fast. The lids of his sockets flutter heavily, his surroundings receding into murky dimness except for Killer’s wicked smile which stands out like a spotlight, bright and radiant. He should struggle, call for Dream, but the only sound that escapes him is a soft whimper that’s swallowed hungrily down by Killer’s mouth in a sudden, more forceful kiss. It leaves Cross shaking even more than the agony that’s starting to make itself known around the stab wound. It’s too much, closing around him in a tight, suffocating grip like he’s sinking into quicksand. He can’t fight it. He goes limp, only faintly aware of Killer’s arms closing around him like a tender embrace. 

“Don’t worry,” Killer promises him as Cross’s consciousness slips away. “I’ll take good care of you.”


	2. Driller, discrete exhibitionism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by horny thoughts from @NeahChanArt about how Dream likes to [rub off on things](https://twitter.com/NeahChanArt/status/1322821738183434242) because he's lowkey horny all the time, and how he and Killer are very much [into exhibitionism](https://twitter.com/NeahChanArt/status/1323328091922509824).

Dream had always been very aware of Cross’s hands. His broad palms were rough from the friction of his sword hilt and his fingers held a remarkable amount of strength that was currently kneading the dough he’d made. Dream tried to keep his face composed, but a blush was starting to steal across his cheeks as he watched Cross’s forearms flex in smooth, rhythmic motions, working his mixture into a smooth, even consistency. 

“It tastes a lot better when you work all of the lumps out,” Cross was saying, jolting Dream from his evocative fantasy of Cross using those same wonderful strong fingers on him. In the safety of the castle, he could indulge himself by keeping his pussy summoned beneath his clothing. The indirect but persistent stimulation of his leggings rubbing against the sensitive ecto-flesh was a gently arousing distraction, heightened by the proximity of his lovers and the knowledge that at any moment they might accost him for their pleasure and find him already wet and waiting for them.

But Cross’s offer to guide him through a cooking lesson was proving to be a straightforwardly innocent suggestion, and not a sly proposition to raunchily desecrate the kitchen counters like Dream had secretly hoped. It wasn’t that Dream wasn’t interested in learning the secrets of pie-making -- the one area of cooking Cross actually excelled in -- but currently he was struggling with an entirely different appetite that made it difficult to focus on the task at hand. 

“Do you think you can take care of cutting the apples?”

Dream nods distractedly. Swallows. Why did it have to be apples? 

Lifts the knife, when suddenly feels a pressure at his back. “Well well. What’s going on here?”

“We’re baking,” Cross says. “There’s nothing for you, yet.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Killer purrs in Dream’s ear, too low for Cross’s hearing. “Something already smells delicious.”

He always seems to have a sixth sense for Dream’s arousal. Killer’s weight is pressing him hard into the counter, putting extra pressure on his pubic bone. Discreetly, Dream rocks his hips backwards and is rewarded by the delicious swell of heat where Killer’s clothed erection is pressing against his tailbone.

“Dream?” Cross prods him. “Did you need help with those apples?”

“No!” Dream splutters. “I can handle it!”

“Or I can,” Killer offers, reaching around Dream to grasp the hand that’s holding the knife. “Let me do that for you. I’ve had a lot of practice.”

Dream is blushing magnificently. He lets Killer take the knife and start cutting, dexterous fingers working with elegant finesse. He is indeed making fast work of the apples, but with every slice he’s subtly rocking into Dream from behind, slyly rutting against him. Cross doesn’t seem to notice, too absorbed in his pastry, adding to the secretive thrill. Dream feels guilty for being so excited. It’s taking every ounce of will to breathe steadily and not give them both away with an untoward moan. 

“Ahh, shoot. I forgot to grab salt,” Cross says, dusting flour off his hands. “I think Horror has extra in his foodlocker downstairs. I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Okay!” Dream squeaks, a little too eagerly. It’s not that he wouldn’t want Cross to notice, or participate, but it feels disrespectful to interrupt the lesson in such a crude way just for his own shameless needs. He can feel sweat trickling down his spine with every unhurried step Cross takes, and the moment the kitchen door closes behind him Dream unabashedly leans over the counter, barely keeping himself from squashing the peeled apples as he stutters, “Killer, please-!”

“I have you, little light,” Killer soothes, his hands slipping under Dream’s clothes and dragging them down with the ease of frequent practice. His tunic is bunched up around his waist, giving Killer space to thrust his already hard cock through the slick that’s already wetting Dream’s thighs. “I’ll take care of you.”

The contact is slippery, filthy and wonderful. Dream’s leggings trap his femurs together, preventing him from spreading them, and when Killer pushes in his passage feels too tight even as the angle makes him light up on the inside. He’s only faintly aware of the hand covering his mouth, muffling the wanton moans he’s making.

“Try keep your voice down,” Killer suggests, his smug grin pressing against the back of Dream’s neck. “Let’s see if we can finish before Criss-Cross comes back, yeah? Wouldn’t want to miss out on that sweet, sweet pie.”

Dream nods fervently, bracing himself as best he can while Killer fucks him with rough, exhilarating ferocity amidst the intoxicating smell of butter and apples. 


	3. Cream, Vampire Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it was @Enneadodeca who suggested that instead of feeding off emotions, the [Dreamtale twins are literal vampires](https://twitter.com/enneadodeca/status/1324964360985448449) who have to suck both blood and feelings out of their victims. Dream in particular has a lot of trouble with this, since he doesn't like to hurt people and has trouble finding willing victims.

Dream looks exhausted. His bones have gone a sickly shade of grey, his eyelights so pale they’re almost white instead of their usual sunny yellow. He looks so small and fragile, and Cross wants nothing more than to gather him close and hold those shaking bones together with his own strength.

His soul does a nervous flip inside his ribcage, but there’s no hesitation when he says, “Of course, Dream. Take what you need.”

It’s almost heartbreaking to see the conflicted hunger and uncertainty warring in Dream’s eyelights. “Are you sure? I know it’s a lot to ask-”

“I’ve fed your brother before,” Cross tells him bluntly. Dream blinks, taken aback. Hadn’t he realised that was both a condition and payment for serving with Nightmare? Offering up their hurt and suffering to feed their boss in exchange for relief from the pain? “I just didn’t realise you needed the same thing, or I would have offered earlier. It’s actually good that you came to me, since I already know what to expect.”

He’s already stripping out of his jacket, letting it fall to the ground along with his cape. He hesitates slightly before adding his turtleneck to the pile, gesturing to the now bare column of his cervical vertebrae. “It’s easier like this, right? Nightmare said it helps when he can reach deep into the manalines.”

“Yes,” Dream agrees softly. His eye lights have blown wide, entranced by Cross’s exposed bones. It would be almost flattering if not for how fixedly he was staring at Cross’s neck. His teeth are ever so slightly parted, and for the first time Cross can see the sharpened tips of Dream’s fangs that have always been hidden by his careful smiles. He stumbles closer to Cross with none of his usual grace, clumsy as a drunk and hands shaking like an addict in need of a fix. Even so, he manages to hold himself back from closing those last few inches of distance, the dwindling sanity in his expression focused enough to scrutinise Cross for any last hint of reluctance. “Cross, are you really certain?”

Cross’s soul gives a painful squeeze. Carefully, gently, he pulls Dream against his bare chest, cupping the back of his skull to guide Dream’s mouth to his throat. “Yes.”

The piercing sting of the bite is familiar, but Cross’s breath still catches. All at once, it’s not him holding Dream against him, but Dream holding Cross upright as his bones instinctively slacken. For a brief moment he worries they’ll both fall, but for all his seeming delicacy Dream holds him up with unsuspected strength as he suckles desperately from the new punctures in Cross’s neck. 

“Cross,” Dream murmurs with awe, open mouthed and wet against Cross’s bones. “It’s so good…”

Cross shudders, the praise hitting hard only to be immediately drawn away as Dream drinks down his positive feelings. It’s not quite the same as Nightmare’s feeding, which always left him feeling soothed and relaxed. Dream greedily laps up his warmth, his confidence, his loyalty and his admiration for Dream. For a moment he’s aghast at the thought of what would happen to lose that soft flicker of affection entirely, but the more Dream takes, the more Cross realises it’s not diminishing. The feeling grows stronger and brighter as Dream’s hands stroke absently over his spine, and sparks unexpectedly when he feels the gentle swirl of Dream’s tongue lapping over the bite marks, soothing them. 

“Oh!” Dream breathes with a soft giggle. “You like that. Can I…?”

“Yes,” Cross slurs, not wholly sure of what he’s agreeing to, only that he doesn’t want Dream to stop. “Please-!”

Dream purrs against him, generously returning all the warmth he’s taken from Cross by holding him closer, letting his hands roam to find all the places that stoke the same feelings of adoration and need he’s feeding from. 


	4. NightKiller, Vampire Nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the same universe as the previous chapter, only with Nightmare and Killer. I got very carried away with this AU and also came up with [a bunch of headcanons](https://twitter.com/Askellie_ut/status/1327562792820301824) about the emotions Nightmare is feasting on from his crew.

“You agreed to this,” Nightmare reminds Killer, his voice soft and dangerous. Both his tentacles and his aura are roiling like he’s expecting resistance, as if Killer can be intimidated into compliance. It’s terribly endearing, though Killer wisely keeps that observation to himself. “It’s time to pay for what you owe me.”

“Sure, Boss.” Killer glances around Nightmare’s office, and with a nonchalant shrug splays himself out on the nearest couch. For such a stuffy looking piece of furniture, it’s oddly comfortable, plush and padded with velvet cushions. He leans back indolently, leering. “Is this how you want me?”

“Yes,” Nightmare says after a near-imperceptible pause, the only sign that Killer succeeded in rattling his composure. He lowers himself down next to Killer with significantly more propriety. His slow movements have all the caution of a predator trying not to spook their prey. “Give me your hand.”

With a coquettish flutter of his sockets, Killer obeys, his fingers skimming teasingly against Nightmare’s own. 

Nightmare’s eye sharpens to a hungry, alien slit. His gaze is as intense and intimate as a hand around Killer’s throat. Tentacles are curling around Killer’s limbs, both supportive and restrictive, holding him steady and still as his hand is lifted to Nightmare’s mouth. 

“Relax,” he says softly, mocking the anticipatory tautness in Killer’s limbs. “I have you.”

The way his teeth press to Killer’s palm is almost affectionate -- a placating kiss -- before his mouth parts wider and previously hidden fangs sink deeply into the end of Killer’s radius. They’re so sharp the twin punctures are almost painless. It takes a surprised second before the sweet shock of pain jolts up his arm, and by then Killer’s mind is already starting to turn foggy with a strange, languid haze.

There’s a brief moment of uncertainty (panic) at the unnatural pull against his magic, but almost immediately it’s drawn away. A sound slips out of him, weak and grateful, and the brief flash of shame and self-loathing disappear next. Nightmare drinks the feelings down, his mouth wet and hot on Killer’s bones. By contrast the tentacles feel cool, squeezing rhythmically in time with each ravenous swallow of marrow and magic. Nightmare’s tongue laves against the wounds, the forked tip slipping easily into the holes. His forearm throbs, hot and tender, barely even aching despite the thin trickle of marrow Killer can see dripping down towards his elbow.

It’s more intimate than Killer expected. Nightmare’s not in his head, precisely, but Killer can feel the shade of his presence inside his soul, stirring up an echo of emotions in what Killer had thought to be only a barren husk, burned out from too much LV. For so long, he thought he was empty, but Nightmare expertly coaxes out the near-forgotten shades of grief, of rage, of despair. Almost before they can start to hurt Nightmare tugs them out as easily as splinters, leaving only throbbing relief behind.

He wants to say something -- a tease, a sly observation at how good Nightmare is with his mouth -- but all that slips out of him is an incoherent moan as he leans back and lets Nightmare bleed him into blissful, mindless peace.


	5. Crossmare, Vampire AU, first time biting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I...really like the vampire idea, okay. ;; This time it's [Cross's first offering](https://twitter.com/Askellie_ut/status/1328468656045473792) to Nightmare, meanwhile Nightmare enjoys provoking a bit of jealousy from Killer to feast on that particular flavour of negativity.

Nightmare’s body presses him down into the soft cushions of the couch, and Cross feels warm inside like he hasn’t in months. His shirt and jacket lie discarded on the floor, but for once he doesn’t miss their protective layers. He’s safe, enveloped, protected...or he thinks he is, until a sharp voice shears through the cloak of his stupor.

“I thought you always took from the wrist the first time?”

The fangs pierced into Cross’s neck are carefully and painlessly withdrawn. The glorious heat of Nightmare’s body recedes as he pulls back, allowing cool air to touch the tender place where blood and saliva are still congealing on his throat. Cross makes a soft, unhappy sound, forcing his heavy sockets to open. Killer is staring down at him, his grin even less convincing than usual, but Cross feels only a faint stirring of unease instead of the usual wary suspicion.

“I decided to make an exception,” Nightmare says, daintily wiping Cross’s blood from his chin and economically licking every trace of it from his fingers. “Is that a problem, Killer?”

Killer’s grin stretches into something vicious and fraught. “Nah, Boss. Just wanted to make sure you knew what you were doing.”

“Of course,” Nightmare says, his deep voice practically a purr. He glances down, his gaze full of a terrifying desire that makes Cross’s laboured breathing stutter even further. It’s the kind of expression that should make him want to flee, but instead his magic surges in his marrow like it’s eager to be drawn out again. “But you’re welcome to stay and observe if you’re concerned.”

Cross’s body feels too heavy to move. His arms only quiver and twitch uselessly, refusing to obey his demand to reach out, but thankfully Nightmare seems to know exactly what he needs. He leans down again, his weight a reassurance and comfort as he gently tilts Cross’s skull to better access the still-bleeding juncture of his throat. 

“For him?” Killer scoffs. “Like I don’t already spend enough time watching out for the newbie.”

Cross’s expression nearly twists in the reflexive scowl Killer frequently brings out of him. He’s been here over a month already, but Killer’s pointedly never called him by name. Only by a series of increasingly more contemptuous endearments.  _ Newbie. Sweetheart. Puppy. Pet.  _ And yet Nightmare keeps assigning them to work together, even though both of them would vastly prefer to work alone. Cross is more than capable of handling himself despite how frequently Killer complains, as if being saddled with Cross is some terrible burden.

But instead of leaving, Killer sits down at the end of the couch, his femur brushing against the top of Cross’s skull. Even without eyelights, his scrutiny feels intense, invasive. Cross tries to voice an objection but his words catch helplessly in his throat as Nightmare’s jawbone brushes against his own.

“Heh,” Killer huffs, amused by Cross’s conflicted expression. “How does he taste, Boss?”

Nightmare hums thoughtfully, his tongue flicking out to lap up the trail of blood that’s slowly worked its way between Cross’s cervical vertebrae. The unusual color hasn’t seemed to deter his appetite. “Unusual. Exquisite.”

“Hmm. Bet I can make him taste even better.”

The movement is blindly fast, or maybe it only seems that way to Cross’s sluggish reflexes. Something cold kisses against his cheek, right below the eye-socket, and it takes him a few seconds to recognise the cause as Killer’s knife.

His body jolts, soul pounding, but Nightmare’s weight keeps him pinned. He can’t even turn his face away with the firm hold on his neck keeping him still. Fear wells up, sour and metallic in the back of his throat, thick on his clumsy tongue. “Nuh...Kil...hah…”

Nightmare makes a sound -- feral, bestial, wholly uncharacteristic -- and with a jolt his fangs sink into Cross’s throat again. There’s none of the care or gentleness of the first time. Cross spasms violently, struck blind by the pain, but before he can think to mount any resistance the hurt fades and so does the panic. Nightmare draws them from his essence, leaving him with nothing but the aftershocks of adrenaline. Nightmare’s gratified moan seems to thrum inside his body, an electric prickle that races down his spine and settles somewhere uncomfortably close to his pelvis. 

“That’s right,” Killer purrs, looking pleased and all the more dangerous for it. “You wanna make the boss feel good, right? Let him taste you properly.”

The tip of the knife circle’s Cross’s socket, the point scouring his face with enough force to sting but not quite enough to cut. Cross’s emotions are sapped away even as they form, leaving him unable to fight but poised harrowingly on the edge of anxiety. It’s exhilarating and terrible at once, both too much and not enough but the way Nightmare cradles him seems to promise that it’ll be worth it by the end. 


	6. Transmasc!Kross, penis mentoring. Yep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Transmasc Cross and Killer was a glorious possibility proposed by @withtheworms. It's SO GOOD and I LOVE THEM. Cross hasn't ever had the chance to play with the genitals he feels are right for his identity. Killer gives him a crash course in how to jerk off.

Cross is sweating with nerves and exertion, but by the time he’s finished his new cock is jutting proudly from the crest of his pubic bone. The magic throbs with both arousal and the raw newness of its existence. The smooth, false skin tingles new nerves registering the sensation of cool air for the rest time. The construct bobs slightly as Cross trembles. He feels ungrounded except where Killer’s hands petting down his spine are anchoring him to this moment, his accomplishment.

“Yeah, buddy, you did real good,” Killer purrs, nuzzling his cheek against Cross’s like a momma cat proud of it’s kitten’s first kill. “Look at yourself. You’re a fucking stud.”

“Y-yeah?” Cross says, still reeling. He’s excited, but anxious too, like the first time he ever summoned a blaster. He’s afraid of doing it wrong, that the magic won’t hold, that it won’t take, that after all the time he’ll be proven that he was wrong about himself after all...but Killer’s proud approval makes it easier to focus on the small flicker of awe at how right it feels. 

“It’s a work of art,” Killer says, no trace of his usual mockery, just raw, hungry appreciation. “I want it in me, but maybe we better start gentle. I wanna break you in nice and slow so I can enjoy every second of it.”

Even as Cross’s face lights up with a glow as bright as his dick, he scowls a little, suspicious that Killer doesn’t think he can handle it. He’s a royal guard, for stars’ sake. He reaches down, intending to give himself a nice firm squeeze to see how it finally feels, but his arm seems to lock in place, refusing to close the gap. His phalanges rattle. What if he touches it and it disappears? What if it bursts and dissolves? What if it shies away from his touch and retreats back inside his pelvis, reverting to its more familiar shape? What if-?

Killer leans against his back, chin resting on Cross’s shoulder as he reaches around to clasp his hand over Cross’s own; a steady guide. His breath is hot and sweet as a kiss on Cross’s neck as he murmurs, “Here, let the expert show you how it’s done.”

Some of the fraught tension eases out of Cross’s shoulders at the reminder that he doesn’t have to do this all by himself. He relaxes back against Killer, letting him take the lead. “Okay,”

Killer’s fingers lace between his own, and his approving grin curls against Cross’s neck.. “Awesome. I’ve got some neat tricks I can’t wait to show you. Just watch and learn.”

The first touch is a light, fluttering ripple of phalanges, Killer’s knuckles guiding Cross’s own. Cross gasps, flinching from the intensity at even that infinitesimal pressure. Killer doesn’t insult him by checking to see if he’s still interested. He probably doesn’t need to, not with the way Cross’s new cock is pulsing quite literally, a rippling shimmer in its vibrancy as his magic thrums with want. 

“Next time, you gotta let me get my mouth on you instead,” Killer says conversationally, only the leering curl at the corner of his mouth to suggest he knows exactly how desperate Cross is for the next touch. “Doesn’t have to be with this, if you don’t want, but looking at you has me working up an appetite.”

Killer has never had any sort of filter, especially not with his dirty talk. Cross almost hates how much he enjoys it, how mortified he is at the bolt of heat that shoots right down to his crotch. His cock gives an eager twitch, leaning yearningly towards their fingers like a pet eager for attention. 

Cross’s voice already sounds shredded when he rasps, “‘Don’t get distracted. You promised me tricks.”

They both know the distraction isn’t for Killer’s benefit, but Killer just huffs amusedly against Cross’s jaw. “My bad. Here, how do you like this one?”

He closes his fingers, curling Cross’s hand into a fist beneath his own, extending only a single index finger which he runs swiftly up the curved underside of the shaft. Cross gives an embarrassing yelp, like he’s been shocked with a current, hips rocking helplessly as Killer’s touch stills just beneath the head of his cock.

“There’s a nice thick vein of magic along the bottom,” Killer explains, his grip tightening to still Cross’s twitching aftershocks. “A nice firm touch along that’ll get you warmed up pretty quick. And here...”

He curls his digit along the folded seam where Cross’s cock flares out into its broader head. He pulls carefully, stretching the crease to reach where Cross wouldn’t even have thought to touch. Cross swallows back a whimper. Killer isn’t using more than a single finger, and only the lightest of pressure, but Cross feels undone. He wants to come. He thinks he could, like this: with only Killer’s warm voice in his ear and the surprisingly smooth surface of his finger tip rubbing back and forth until his slit begins to weep. Pale, watery beads of fluid well up from inside him only to drizzle down and trickle onto Killer’s finger, which behinds to glide even more easily from the added lubrication. Cross’s breathing is all out of order, sharp gasps and stifled, bitten back noises as he arches back against Killer, and--

“Hold back the magic,” Killer orders firmly, bringing Cross’s desperate squirming to a halt. “Imagine a knot tied around your pubic symphysis. Make it tighter. Don’t let it out.”

Cross makes a shaky, disappointed sound but doesn’t even hesitate before obeying. His eyes slide shut, imagining the knot. His mouth falls open, a high pitched keen breaking from his throat as he mentally pulls on the cord, feeling the intangible pinch as his cock reluctantly eases back from the wild edge of oncoming climax. 

“You’re so good at this,” Killer tells him, pleased. “Took me a while to get the hang of that trick. But the longer you hold it off, the better it’ll feel at the end, trust me.”

Cross does, although he can’t say it. He can’t articulate anything but a needy sound, thin and pleading, trusting Killer to know that what he wants is  _ more _ , not to stop. 

And Killer doesn’t disappoint him. He unfurls his hand, coaxing Cross’s to do the same, and curls both their fingers around Cross’s cock with  _ real _ pressure this time.

“Keep imagining that knot,” Killer tells him. “And just follow my lead. I’m gonna make you feel amazing.”


	7. Kross + little Dreamtale Twins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a runaway discussion on Twitter about a 'what if the creators accidentally spawned a second, broken version of Dreamtale in the existing multiverse that was doomed to disappear, except that Cross and Killer decided to steal away the new versions of the Dreamtale twins and adopt them'.
> 
> That's a pretty big what-if but this is what it gets you.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

Cross remained silent, staring straight ahead and doing his best to hold still and look as unthreatening as possible. For all the good it did with Killer standing beside him with his ghoulish, empty sockets and his knife-like grin. The two small skele-children peeking out from behind the thick trunk of the tree didn’t look very reassured despite Cross’s efforts.

“It’s something really, really stupid.”

The two round, cherubic faces looked nearly identical except for their eye-lights, yellow and purple respectively to match the trimmings on their clothing. It was unfairly adorable. Cross’s soul felt achingly tight at the sight of them, their skulls wreathed in the golden circlets representing a scope of responsibilities far too large for such small children.

“Stupid and impossible. You know what the Boss said about this place. It’s going to fold in on itself in a couple of hours. It can’t exist. It’s not allowed to exist.

The purple-eyed child’s face was set in a forbidding glare, trying to ward them off without words. It broke Cross’s heart a little to see thin lines of suspicion and distrust in the face of one so young. Their bright-eyed twin looked more curious than wary, hesitantly returning Cross’s hopeful smile.

“And these kids...they’re not allowed to exist. You know how bad they could screw things up, right? The whole fuckin’ multiverse could crack like an egg because you decided today was the day you didn’t wanna follow orders.”

“It was your idea to come here,” Cross finally hissed back, keeping his voice just as low as Killer’s. The twins were muttering to themselves too, and seemed to be having a similar argument. 

“Just to look! Not to bring back souvenirs,” Killer said, his hand gripping Cross’s shoulder with painful tightness. “I just wanted a little peek at the Boss’s past. It’s a look-but-don’t-touch situation. We’ve had our look...now we need to go.”

There was a pointed tug on Cross’s shoulder that didn’t even succeed in dragging him back a step. It was unexpectedly easy to shake him off as Cross lowered himself down on one knee so the two children didn’t have to keep craning their necks to look up at him.

“Hey,” he called softly, offering his hands to show they were empty, harmless. He sincerely hoped Killer was keeping his knife properly concealed under his jacket. “Nice to meet you. I’m Cross.

There was a moment of silence, then another furious barrage of whispers that ended with a yelp of alarm from the purple-eyed child as their twin boldly stepped forward and away from the safety of the tree.

“Greetings, Cross!” they chirped with odd formality. “My name is Dream. Welcome to the Tree of Feelings!”

“Dream!” their reluctant twin growled. “Don’t tell them what it is!”

Cross allowed himself a discreet glance at the tree. He’d heard the tale of the original directly from the mouths of its former Guardians, and while there was a subtle, simmering energy in this Tree, its boughs held only sparse scatterings of leaves and no apples at all. It would never bear fruit. It wasn’t the real Tree of Feelings, only a facsimile created in its likeness, soon to be destroyed along with the unfortunate world it was born to.

Along with these two children; innocent, blameless beings who would never know why they existed only to be so callously erased before ever getting a chance to live the lives that were never meant to be theirs in the first place.

It was so fucking unfair. Unacceptably so. 

“We’re so fucking dead,” Killer lamented. “The Boss is going to fucking murder us.”

Dream’s skull tilted to the side, sockets wide and curious. “What’s ‘fucking’?”

Almost immediately the other child was out from behind the tree, clapping their palms pointedly over Dream’s acoustic meatus. 

“Don’t you dare tell him!” the child snarled, purple eye-lights flaring hotly. “Or  _ I’ll _ fucking murder you!”

Killer blinked wordlessly for a moment before breaking into loud, braying laughter. Cross tried not to glare at him, doing his best to remain composed for the children.

“Nighty!” Dream complained plaintively. “What’s wrong?”

Killer’s sniggering spluttered into a cough that sounded suspiciously like  _ Nighty  _ in a high-pitched, incredulous tone. Cross discreetly elbowed him in the hip.

“It’s a bad word and you shouldn’t say it,” Nighty scolded, giving Killer a dark look before fixing his gaze on Cross. “No one comes here without a reason,  _ Cross _ , so what’s yours?”

The surly, imperious tone had entirely the opposite of its intended effect. Cross felt a pang of overwhelming fondness and knew with immediate certainty that, murder or not, he would save this too-serious child and his innocent twin no matter what it took.


	8. Mute!Cross AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @withtheworms and @thesinbubble came up with the wonderful, terrible idea of an AU where Nightmare tortured Cross to the point of muteness. Killer takes the poor traumatised boy under his wing.

“This will be your new partner.”

Killer hikes an unimpressed browbone at the stiff-postured skeleton Nightmare presents him with. “Isn’t that the guy that went AWOL on us? The one bodysharing with the shitty kid?”

Nightmare had thrown quite the tantrum over that loss, but now he only looks inordinately pleased with himself. “The human in his soul has been dealt with. As for his desertion...he won’t be making the same mistake again, will you, Cross?”

A tentacle slithers upward to stroke the curve of Cross’s skull. The motion is gentle, if unenviably slimy. The contact leaves behind a clear, viscous ooze that gleams wetly on the bone. Cross doesn’t so much as flinch, his dull gaze staying fixed on the floor. Minutely, he shakes his head in accordance with Nightmare’s statement.

“That’s right,” Nightmare purrs. “He’s learned his lesson. You’ve already seen what he can do. He possesses the same code-altering abilities as his human-half. I’m sure you’ll be able to think of interesting ways to make use of him on your next mission.”

“Sure,” Killer agrees, casting a sly glance at Cross who doesn’t seem particularly upset to be talked about as though he isn’t there. He looks nothing like the fierce, snarling opponent who punctured Killer’s ribcage with sharp stakes of bone. If he remembers Killer in return, the prospect of retaliation doesn’t seem to have occurred to him. His stance is wide open, unprepared, defenceless; nothing like the soldier he’s supposed to be.

(Like all the fight has been painstakingly stamped out of him.)

Killer shakes off the fleeting thought, folding his arms across his chest. “I was gonna head out to Underfell #314 to mess up their latest timeline. Guess I can bring him along as long as he can pull his own weight.”

“Let me know how it goes,” Nightmare orders. “And feel free to work him hard. Cross has a lot to make up for. If he fails to perform, I’ll mete out the appropriate punishment personally.”

Killer almost misses the micro-expression that passes over Cross’s face, and might not have recognised it if not for how familiar he is with the agonised grimace of a knife being twisted. It’s gone in an instant, leaving only listless resignation in its wake without even a word of complaint about how easily and unfairly Killer could condemn him to an undeserved torment.

“Doesn’t have much to say for himself, does he?” Killer notes.

Nightmare’s smile stretches and twists into something perversely amused, like he’s appreciating the punchline of a private joke. “Not anymore.”

With that ominous statement, his body liquifies and melts into the floor, leaving Killer alone to figure out how best to make use of his downtrodden looking charge. He circles closer to the other skeleton, looking him up and down as intrusively as possible. “So...Criss-Cross, is it?”

Either the mocking pet name or the predatory scrutiny finally prompts a reaction. Cross turns hesitantly towards Killer, moving far too slow to even think of avoiding the rough grip on his collar that twists the front of his uniform for leverage before Killer slams him hard against the wall.

“I don’t care what the Boss says,” Killer informs Cross cheerfully. “I had my fill of bitching from your other half. If I hear even a peep of complaint out of you, I’m gonna bring your dust home in a bag, you get me?”

He expects the violent suddenness of the impact to knock the apathy out of Cross, but instead all he gets is a tremulous pair of wide, mismatched eyes staring back at him in shock. Cross’s breath wheezes rapidly through his teeth, shallow and panicked, but he stays rigidly still like he’s too afraid to move except to give a tight, frantic nod. His body quivers with tension, like he’s braced for a blow that he has no intention of dodging.

(Probably because Nightmare’s taught him that trying to avoid a punishment will only make it worse for him in the end.)

As abruptly as he struck, Killer releases his hold. “Glad we understand each other.” 

One look in Cross’s unguarded sockets is enough to tell Killer he won’t be giving any trouble. He’s too afraid, too beaten. It wouldn’t even be any fun for Killer to threaten him with it. He turns away, fearlessly offering his back as he crooks a beckoning finger. “Come on, then. Let’s go have some fun.”

Cross is quick to trot after him, like a dog called to heel.


	9. Kross, more Mute!Cross AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A scene from much later in the mute!Cross AU, when Cross and Killer are much better acquainted.

“Come on, pretty, won’t you make a little noise for me?”

Cross’s body is burning hot, grinding back just as eagerly against Killer’s own as they claw at each other’s clothes. His expression soft and hazy with pleasure, and when his skull lolls back, Killer takes the opportunity to bite down hard on Cross’s temptingly proffered throat. Even then, the most he makes is a soft, choked whimper, the sound desperately bitten back and quashed.

“Wanna hear those sweet sounds of yours,” Killer cajoles, finally getting Cross’s shorts out of the way. The warm purple glow of Cross’s cock lines up against his own crimson ectoflesh, an almost perfect mirror image. Killer wraps a hand around them both, squeezing generously. “Let me hear a little moan, huh?”

Cross’s voice is thin and rasping, but the timbre is deep despite its ragged quality as he struggles to give Killer what he wants. It’s a courageous effort, louder than any other sound he’s heard Cross make.

(That’s not entirely true. Sometimes after a mission, Cross will fall asleep on Killer’s bed in lieu of stumbling down the hall to his own. Every time without fail he’ll startle violently awake after a few hours, shaking and disoriented in the unfamiliar environment, and on the especially bad nights he’ll wake with a scream; a wrenching, blood-curdling cry that makes even Killer’s warped soul go cold.

Sometimes he hears the same sound coming from Nightmare's room. It usually takes a few days before Cross is recovered enough to join him on missions again.)

“Yeah, that’s it,” Killer croons, rewarding Cross with a firm stroke up the length of his shaft. “Good boy, you’re doing so well. What about my name? Killer. Just whisper it. Ain’t no one else gonna hear you but me. Can you try for me?”

Cross’s face twists, not in pleasure but with anguish. His lower jaw trembles faintly, and Killer can feel him cringing back from Killer’s attention like he’s suddenly unworthy of it.

“Hey, no, come back.” Killer gently pins him back against the wall and leans in to capture Cross’s mouth with his own. It takes several long seconds for Cross to reciprocate, hesitantly kissing back as Killer diligently applies every trick of his tongue and teeth to chase away the brief shadow of distress he caused. Only when he feels Cross relax again does he come up for air, nuzzling apologetically against Cross’s cheek. “S’okay. Maybe one day, when you’re up for it. How about you suck me off, and I’ll call out your name instead?”

Cross drops immediately to his knees, equal parts desperate and eager to make an apology he doesn’t really owe. Inexperience makes him a little clumsy and messy, but it’s more than enough to demonstrate that his mouth is good for other things even if talking still isn’t one of them. Killer watches him through lidded sockets, promising himself that next time he’ll solicit Cross away from the castle. Maybe that will prevent the haunted terror from surfacing in Cross’s sockets, and unlock the sweet treasure of his voice that torture and trauma have locked away.


	10. Crossmare, feeding kink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a conversation with @withtheworms about how, unlike the rest of the bad Sanses, Cross probably doesn't regularly indulge in his junk food habit even though he loves it (he always tried to eat healthy while training for the Royal Guard) and of course Nightmare would get a kick out of feeding him terrible food and enjoy's Cross's shameful guilty pleasure. 
> 
> Plus...feeding kink and Cross developing a proper pudgy Sans tum. :3

“Come on,” Nightmare coaxes, the rest of his tentacles furling around Cross in a loose but inescapable cage. It’s too late to take a shortcut out. Nightmare is pressing against his shoulder, uncomfortably close. “Just one bite.”

The hot dog is slathered with ketchup, the sausage faintly scorched with a perfect cross-hatch of blisters. It smells amazing. Cross hasn’t had one in years, maybe not even in this lifetime. Even though he’s already full, his tongue tingles. He’s salivating. Nightmare is staring at him with a fond expectation that could turn swiftly and brutally into dangerous disappointment.

Cross has no choice. He ignores the background sniggers of Dust and Killer and delicately reaches out to take a careful mouthful. The sauce slithers unhelpfully down his chin and even oozes up over Nightmare’s fingers, painting them bright red. Cross can’t help staring at it, chewing slowly and mechanically as he tries not to make any sort of undignified sound. This is so stupid. He’s not even hungry. Nightmare don't even need to eat! Why is he staring like Cross is some shiny new genocidal AU, full of enticing misery for him to enjoy?

With difficulty, Cross manages to swallow, only belatedly realising he was too distracted to even properly taste anything. It doesn’t matter, though, because Nightmare only pushes the hot dog closer again, dangling it enticingly.

“Again,” he orders in a tone that won’t permit refusal, and Cross slumps, knowing he’s not getting away until he’s eaten the whole thing.


	11. Mute!Cross AU, Torture

When Cross wakes up yet again in the endless, suffocating dark, there’s a brief, harrowing moment of disappointment where he realises that part of him wished never to wake up again. It’s fleeting, but terrifying in how starkly his perspective has shifted. He’s no longer thinking of rescue or escape. Only of how much longer Nightmare will continue to drag this out before allowing Cross the mercy of turning to dust.

He takes a deep, shuddering breath and tries to bury the realisation beneath the reflex of his training coming to the fore, instinctively running a soldier’s assessment of the state of his body and how much fight he has left to give.

He blinks several times, but despite how long he’s been here, the darkness of the room is unnatural and impenetrable. The gloom is thick and opaque, leaving him completely blind and wholly reliant on his other senses; hearing, smell, touch.

Though smell is equally a lost cause. The prominent tang of his own blood and sweat drowns out almost everything else, even the faint, acrid scent of Nightmare’s corruptive ooze. His tattered clothes are sticky and cold with his own filth, and each breath tastes like the musk of sour fear and the gritty foulness of dust.

For a feverish moment, he thinks of rolling over so at least his face isn’t pressed into the sticky, rancid pool of  _ something _ that’s coagulated beneath his cheekbone, but his weak attempt at movement is violently aborted as his whole body seizes in a convulsion of agony.

“Hah...oh...hngh…” Senseless syllables tumble out of him as he wheezes against the floor, his body thrumming like a tuning fork on a frequency of pain that shows no sign of abating. His soul churns with a nauseating quiver, tight and hot and heavy in his chest. He wretches up an acidic mouthful of blood and bile, like the hurt is something tangible his body is trying to purge. Head spinning, all he can do is lie still and wait until his brutalised body exhausts itself and subsides back into almost-tolerable numbness.

As the ragged keen of his breathing slowly evens out, the oppressive silence starts to bear down on him again, crushing him under the weight of his helplessness. The impenetrable dark is just as encompassing and confining as his destroyed universe had been. The grounding solidity of the floor doesn’t deter the creeping dread of agoraphobia, the mocking emptiness around him makes him want to thrash and cry and scream if only to fill the void.

He grits his teeth, desperately choking back the panic, and instead of the raw wail that wants to break its way out of his chest, he only lets the smallest thread of a sound escape. It’s low and shaky, but resonant, fluttering behind his ribs like a purr. He tries again, putting more force into the sound, and manages to come up with a soft, clear note. He tries another one, at a different pitch. Then a third, the beginning of a melody. 

Dream always said he liked Cross’s voice. For the brief time they travelled together, the guardian frequently prompted Cross to sing or hum just to fill the many hours of monotonous travel between worlds and settlements across the universes. Cross’s low, baritone rumble had become synonymous with companionship and calm; a soothing accompaniment to the familiar motions of making camp or settling with Dream beside a campfire, huddling for warmth.

His tune is faulty, stuttering every time his breath comes too short and hitching with pain, but the broken song gives him something to focus on. He can’t fully articulate the words but the buzz of soft, indistinct sounds is familiar and pleasant in his ravaged throat. The fraught tension eases out of his aching bones. His soulbeat settles into a gentler, steadier rhythm. The memory of Dream’s hand on his own feels clear and warming. Something like hope flickers briefly in his chest.

Only to be extinguished in an instant as something cold and slippery licks its way over the back of his neck, smothering the quiet resonance of Cross’s voice.

“What are you doing?” Nightmare asks, his voice deceptively curious, pleasant. Cross’s body turns ice cold, frozen in fear. “Did I give you leave to speak or use your voice? Especially to craft such a sickening positive feeling? You’re very mistaken, Cross, if you think you’re allowed to keep such a thing.”

The tentacle winds its way around Cross’s throat, strangling as a noose, cutting off the pitiful sound of protest Cross tries to make as he’s ruthlessly dragged across the floor and deeper into the darkness.


End file.
